


Breaking the Ice

by Jedi Buttercup (jedibuttercup)



Category: Transporter (Movies)
Genre: Banter, Getting Together, M/M, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Yuletide 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 12:19:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8890537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedibuttercup/pseuds/Jedi%20Buttercup
Summary: Despite his best efforts, Frank leads a complicated life.  It's a good thing Tarconi likes complicated.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [louis_quatorze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/louis_quatorze/gifts).



> Titled from a quote from Transporter 2: "We don't need to know someone for long time, you know, to cook for them... It's our way of breaking the ice." I watch this movie every time it comes on, too; just the right length, amount of action, and banter. :) Enjoy!

Another foreign city, another temp job come to an end. Frank Martin tapped his burner phone against one suit-clad knee, staring abstractly out across the parking garage where he'd rented a space for his Audi, and mulled over the options in front of him.

He could pick something else up easily enough; he'd made plenty of connections in the business over the years, several of whom he respected and a few of whom he even liked. He might not want to risk going back to France until the dust he'd kicked up during the mess with the human traffickers had had a chance to settle, but there was a lot of the world he hadn't seen yet, and a lot of jobs to choose from wherever he might go.

Alternatively, he could get serious about retiring; it wasn't as though he actually needed the money. Not even after paying the architect, the construction crew, and the security company for his new house; the old structure had been a complete loss, but the view had been worth preserving, and the construction would be finished in a few months. He could put it up for sale, spend some time on the beach, maybe even pick up a tan that hadn't come from a desert. Start over somewhere new and let the grass grow under his feet.

He'd be alone, though; and while he was fairly comfortable as the sole master of his own space, the idea of all that time with no tasks to fill it and no one to share it with seemed a little — bleak. When he'd just been starting out, before he'd done his bit for Queen and Country, he'd always pictured himself with a companion in his later years; someone to share the quiet with after he got out. _If_ he got out. Someone who knew him and didn't judge; whom he knew in turn, and had nothing to do with the messy tangle of his black ops career. Someone who knew how to laugh, and enjoy the little things.

Someone a little like a certain friend of his. 

Or — _not_ friend, according to the file the Miami-Dade police had assembled to document Inspector Tarconi's first-ever overseas vacation. Frank had been curious about the fallout at the station after his last call to the man for help, so he'd arranged with a professional acquaintance to have it copied for him. And right there in the official report, in Tarconi's words: 'we have a relationship.' The chief had put the phrasing down to Tarconi being French ... but Frank knew the Inspector's English was better than that, and the man _did_ have a very sly wit.

So; a relationship. They hadn't had a chance to talk before he'd flown back to Marseilles, what with the drug cartel's plot and its aftermath eating up their entire weekend, and Frank hadn't hinted at anything more than friendship in the initial invitation — though something of the sort _had_ been in the back of his mind. Afterward, he'd chalked it up to a lost opportunity and moved on. But even if it came to nothing more than the occasional weekend fishing trip ... he had to admit, the idea still held a certain amount of appeal.

When professional acquaintances asked why he was still single, Frank often joked about having to beat women off with a stick and let them make their own assumptions. But given the choice, it was quality he cared about, not quantity, or any kind of label. He'd take that fishing boat and Tarconi's happily rambling company — in whatever degree the Frenchman might offer it — over packages who didn't want to take no for an answer, lonely employers' wives, or sadistic mercenaries any day of the week.

Tarconi might technically be on the opposite side of the law, but he had known what Frank was from the start, so that wasn't an issue. He'd snooped around often enough to make sure Frank knew he knew, but never pressed; not so long as Frank had kept the messier parts of his occupation away from the city they both called home. It hadn't been until Lai had come crashing into their lives seeking to rescue a truck-load of innocents from her father that he'd really warmed up to Frank, though. Overnight, they'd gone from verbal fencing over the occasional coffee to Tarconi breaking Frank out of jail and wishing him luck, and from there to the man being willing to risk his own freedom to help him stay one step ahead of his pursuers. Not to mention, Frank actually trusting the Inspector to do so — he didn't exactly have the best track record with authority figures.

Perhaps it shouldn't be a surprise, then, that the idea of picking up the phone to call Tarconi was much more tempting than any of his other options. The question was, did Tarconi feel the same? Frank thought about it a moment longer, then made himself a deal; he could always test the waters with another weekend vacation, and see how things fell out by the end of it.

The line only rang twice; it was business hours back in France. "Tarconi."

"François," Frank replied genially. He rarely used the other man's first name, despite the fact Tarconi always used his; he knew that would get his attention.

"Frank!" Tarconi exclaimed, mood brightening audibly from the abstracted tone of his initial answer. "How nice to hear from you when I don't have to pretend you are my mother! At least — I trust that's not the case today?"

A fond smile tugged at the corner of Frank's mouth. "No; all pleasure, no business today, Inspector."

"Good, good," Tarconi replied. "Although it is the strangest thing, our one out of date computer for the many of us in my department was mysteriously upgraded the week after I got home. We have two of them now! So if you _did_ need assistance of that kind, you would not have to send your cook to look it up for you."

Frank snorted at the wry reference, and the subtle acknowledgement of the funds' unstated origin. "You know she was never the cook; besides, I thought _you_ were the cook now? You should read the things they had to say about your crème brûlée and croque monsieur in the Miami-Dade police files."

"Alas, that my efforts were wasted on business," Tarconi sighed expressively. "So while I may have cooked, I still have not cooked for you. I fear they did not even let me finish the madeleines before putting me in handcuffs."

"About that," Frank chuckled. "Speaking of what's in the file — you were _overwhelmed_ by their _efficiency_?" He tsk'ed as he quoted that bit of overstatement. A pretty excuse for not flashing his badge from the start when the Miami cops had come for Frank and found him instead. And a tidy one, too; Frank hadn't thought to ask then, and wouldn't have now if not for the reports.

"But I had only just arrived!" Tarconi objected in faux innocent tones. "As a welcoming committee, it may have left something to be desired — but as you are aware, great rapidity excuses many sins. To have found me so quickly! Of course I was surprised."

"Right, right." Frank's grin widened. "Thanks, by the way. I wouldn't have been able to wrap things up in time to save the kid's life if I hadn't had the perfect inside man."

"Oh, I'm sure you would have managed something, Frank. You're very resourceful," Tarconi replied, warmly. Then he cleared his throat, adopting a more normal tone. "But if you have not called on business, then...?"

...Why had he called him at work? "What's your schedule look like over the next couple of weeks?"

"Oh, same, same. Your little swimming trip past the point was the highlight of the last few years around here, I'm afraid. Why do you ask?"

In other words, quiet enough he might be able to get a few days free. Frank thought back to the early days when Tarconi would drop by to hint about black BMWs and familiar license plate numbers, and how that juxtaposed with the most infamous export of his current city of residence. "Just wondering if I might offer you a cup of coffee."

"Coffee?" Tarconi repeated with an air of faint puzzlement that quickly sharpened to a very dry indignation. " _Coffee_ , Frank? Correct me if I am wrong, but you are in Seattle, no? If you are speaking of that beverage with the logo of the mermaid...."

"Would I do that?" Frank chuckled, amused. "Strictly homemade, in my ancient ten-cup machine. Also on offer: another beach, several degrees colder than the ones back home; a ninety-five percent chance of water falling from the sky; and a fridge full of pretentious microbrews that actually aren't half bad. It's no Miami, but there's enough nightlife here to keep a man busy."

"Hmm. I imagine so," Tarconi replied mildly; Frank could almost picture the wry look in his eyes. "Such a distance, though; halfway around the world! I suppose I cannot count on constant tailwinds for such a long journey."

"More like a third of the way 'round the world," he pointed out, in a wheedling tone. For all Tarconi's objections, he sounded like a man looking to be talked into something, not out of it; an encouraging sign. "And when else are you going to get the chance?"

"You are not staying there much longer, then?" The tone was still mild, but with a layered meaning beneath it; always the detail man, Tarconi.

"Current job's done, and I think I might actually retire this time. No bullshit," Frank smirked.

"No bullshit?" Tarconi repeated, then hummed under his breath. "Then how can I turn down your kind offer? I'll speak to my chief, though he may be reluctant to let me go after the calls he received the last time."

"I make no promises, because that never turns out well for me. But there's no one else I'm responsible for this time; just you, me, and the view of the Puget Sound out the window of my apartment."

"Sounds cosy. Well then, I will ask him, and let you know."

"Great. I'll look forward to it," Frank replied, and rang off.

* * *

He spent the next couple of weeks beginning the process of detaching from the job; gradually, not anything abrupt that might draw unwanted attention. He put the word out that he was going more selective, then culled a short list of names from the ranks of the up-and-comers in the business to pass to prospective clients in his stead. Doing it in such a way left him the option of walking the change back at some future point as well; not that he expected to find that necessary, but it satisfied the part of him that always kept one eye on the exits.

As the man said, it was only paranoia if they _weren't_ out to get you. As past experience had proven, it was better to be prepared than to be caught off guard.

His instincts seemed to have been on the money this time, though. Tarconi left a message a few days after his call with a date and time; another Saturday morning flight, this time with a brief layover in Philadelphia. A total of nine time zones in nineteen hours. If there'd still been any question in his mind about the Inspector's motivations, that figure would have answered it; it was a long way to travel for dubious weather and fifty-eight hours or so of snappy conversation.

Before he knew it, the day had arrived — and on _this_ carefully planned Saturday, there were no last-minute interruptions. Frank arrived at the airport with plenty of time to spare, and was waiting in the arrivals area when Tarconi appeared, slightly travel-worn in wrinkled slacks and a casual long-sleeved shirt with a single carry-on bag.

"Frank. You are here!" Tarconi said, grinning wryly at him. He looked genuinely pleased to be there despite the gruelling trip, and an inward tension Frank hadn't even realised he'd been carrying relaxed in him at the smile. 

"Inspector," he grinned back, exchanging a handclasp of greeting. "Good to see you. How was the flight?"

"No tailwinds, alas, but some very pretty views. The meals left something to be desired, as well. I hope you have stocked your kitchen with more than just your 'microbrews'; _j'ai une faim de loup_!"

Frank chuckled as they headed out to the parking garage. "Hungry like the wolf, huh? Not to worry. Just because I was down to fast-food menus and pastry ingredients the last time doesn't mean I don't appreciate a good meal as much as the next man, you know. Though I expect you'll want to visit the public market yourself while you're here, regardless; trust me, it's well worth the experience."

Tarconi gave him a deeply sceptical, amused look. "Forgive an old man for wondering; I never know _what_ to expect with you, Frank. You are always breaking your own rules! And yet ... I find I always know what to expect _of_ you; it is quite the contradiction."

He looked more pleased by that than otherwise; and Frank had not forgotten the Inspector's long-ago statement about his romantic preferences. "It's a good thing you like complicated, then, isn't it?"

Tarconi's smile widened until he was nearly beaming with it. "Yes, a very good thing."

The necessary business of exiting the terminal, dodging foot and vehicle traffic alike as they retrieved the car from the parking garage, and heading back to his apartment occupied the next while; it wasn't really the time or place for a more serious conversation, but the warm mood persisted, and there was plenty else to talk about. The weather, the local traffic conditions — and other topics of mutual interest.

"I have been checking up on the construction of your house," Tarconi filled him in without being asked. "The work goes very well, though I find I miss the tower. But I suppose it is preferable for a man in your line of work not to illuminate the path to his door."

Frank would miss the lighthouse, too; from the creaky old lift to the minimal kitchen facilities to the escape tunnel leading down into the ocean from the basement, it had been a unique and comfortable home. But he didn't think Tarconi had made the observation just to discuss the architecture.

"In my _former_ line of work," he reminded him. "But you're right; everyone I want to visit will already know exactly where I am, so there's no point recreating such a visible landmark."

A pointed look in Tarconi's direction drew another smile from the man, and another casually assessing remark. "Then I suppose you will refresh your choice of vehicle as well? Perhaps even a color other than the ubiquitous black?"

"Now where would be the fun of that?" Frank scoffed. "I didn't choose the job because I liked the _pay_. Even if I'm only transporting myself, there's no excuse not to do it in style. Besides, it would give you far fewer excuses to visit." Though there might be fewer Audi's than BMW's; he'd have to ask. There'd been eighty-something similar BMW's in the area last time Tarconi's boss had sent him to check.

"Do I detect a certain amount of attachment there, Frank? I thought that was against your rules," Tarconi observed, lifting his eyebrows in mild inquiry.

Frank didn't bother denying it. "Why does everyone always bring up my rules?"

"I have always thought you must secretly be a romantic at heart," came the pleased reply.

Frank sniffed, and didn't dignify that with a response. But Tarconi wasn't wrong. To know and be known; he supposed it was a fairly idealistic aspiration. The last one he had left, and far closer kept for it, after the professional disillusionment that had followed him from his military career. He had a feeling it was in safe hands with Tarconi, though. The man had yet to let him down; and considering the trouble he'd put him through already, that was quite the achievement.

Tarconi followed that comment with a more lengthy appraisal of his outfit as they finally parked the car and headed into his building. "And you even wore the suit today, I see. The one you wear when you are about serious business. Always at your house in France it was functional wear; clothes for cleaning the car or, shall we say, taking out the trash? This I like much better; it is a good look on you."

"I'm glad you approve," Frank said, finally letting his tone slip into something a little less appropriate for public consumption as he let them into the apartment. "Though I hope you don't mind if don't wear it all weekend — it might get a little awkward for some of the _nightlife_ I had in mind."

Tarconi had been looking around the main room as they entered; he turned back toward Frank at that, casually dropping his bag on the floor. "Ah. So it _is_ like that; I will admit, I had hoped. But we are so different, you and I; I could not be sure that in this, I was not indulging in wishful thinking." 

There was an unfamiliar warmth in his expression as he spoke; less smile and more smugness, plus a certain spark in his blue eyes. Frank couldn't help but respond in kind, loosening the knot of his tie as he replied.

"Why? Because you're not a bad liar who's more concerned with doing the right thing than following orders? Oh wait — maybe I _do_ have a type," he teased.

Tarconi chuckled at that and stepped forward, batting Frank's hand aside to work at the tie with his own fingers. "I am an old man with a white beard, whose memory is not quite as sharp as it used to be," he said more seriously, warm calluses brushing against the hollow of Frank's throat. "I thought it best not to make any assumptions."

Frank swallowed around the jolt of arousal that lit up his nerves at the touch, and went very still. "Your memory is exactly as sharp as it's always been, until it needs to be otherwise," he said gruffly. "Don't think I didn't notice; you're not the only detail man here. And whatever color your hair is, you have more of it than I do."

"Such an important consideration," Tarconi said, very dryly. The tie fell from his fingers — and then he was leaning forward, testing Frank's mouth with a kiss. Inquisitive and perceptive, like everything about him.

Frank's hands came up to his shoulders, bracing there for a moment as they got their bearings. They were almost the same height, maybe an inch apart; and for all the decade or so separating their ages and the rumpled way Tarconi dressed, he was still nicely fit under Frank's palms.

"Hmm," he said after a moment. "Speaking of important considerations. You still hungry enough to need directions to the kitchen? Or are you up for a little detour first?"

Tarconi's eyes sparkled at that; it was obvious to both of them just what he was up for, as close as they were standing. "At my age, I can use all the recovery time we can arrange; there are only so many hours in a weekend. And in all the time I have known you, I have yet to see those abs of yours up close."

"A criminal omission," Frank agreed, amused, and reached for the buttons of his shirt.

It looked like he'd chosen the right route; now, to make sure they both enjoyed the ride.


End file.
